


Her Inevitable Descent

by FictionPenned



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e01 Antipasto, F/M, Firenze | Florence, Kissing, Music, Mythology References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27970217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionPenned/pseuds/FictionPenned
Summary: As much as Bedelia fears Hannibal's more violent tendencies, she is inescapably drawn to his aura. She is enraptured by him. She feels both a hunger and a darkness rise in her whenever he dares to look in her direction, and it is as much of a seduction as the carefully curated meals and his sure hands on her body and the many, many bottles of fine wine that are so often split between the two of them.Just as certainly as she dreads the moment when she cocks a single finger and beckons him into her bed, she finds herself increasingly aware of the inevitability of her demise.She has been flirting with the underworld for months now, idly rolling a pomegranate seed between her fingertips, allowing its red juice to stain the skin beneath, tongue flicking out to wet her lips as she contemplates the taste of it, the finality of it, the overwhelming temptation that can be contained within such a tiny, seemingly inconsequential object.Perhaps she ought to get a jump on destiny, lest it eventually creep up upon her and catch her unawares.Written for Mistletoe Exchange 2020
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21
Collections: Mistletoe Exchange 2020





	Her Inevitable Descent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HogwartsToAlexandria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HogwartsToAlexandria/gifts).



Winter in Baltimore was a cursed, sickly thing, meant to be discarded at one's earliest convenience, however, winter in Florence carries a certain undeniable allure. Perhaps it is the lack of slush oozing underfoot whenever one dares to leave the apartment. Perhaps it is the towering domes that seek to challenge the barrier between earth and sky. Perhaps it is the unseasonably warm electricity that sparks between Hannibal and Bedelia, filling their shared space with a rarified breed of tension founded upon violence and rapture and mutual curiosity. 

They are, at once, a pair of geniuses and a pair of fools, a dreadful hand under which any other players might have folded, but Bedelia and Hannibal are both too stubborn to surrender. Instead, they each continue to circle around the other, drawing close enough to touch but not close enough to kill. It is the measured and deadly dance of two evenly matched predators staking out their territory with their heads tilted, their eyes narrowed, and their teeth gleaming.

Though they share an apartment and a lie, they still sleep in separate bedrooms. Bedelia insisted upon it in a thinly veiled attempt to keep herself safe, and Hannibal had indulged her with sparkling amusement and a small smile, his expression spinning a silent prophecy regarding the inevitability of their coupling. In that moment, she had allowed the smug prediction to pass without any sort of acknowledgement on her part, permitted it to linger in the electric air of the room entirely unencumbered. 

So, too, has it lingered in her mind. 

She constantly sees it in the set of his lips. 

She sees it in the glimmer in his eyes. 

She sees it in the tightening of the muscles in his hands when he works his fingers into the flesh of his opposite palm as he thinks. 

As much as Bedelia fears Hannibal's more bloody tendencies, she is inescapably drawn to his aura. She is enraptured by him. She feels both a hunger and a darkness rise in her whenever he dares to look in her direction, an it is as much of a seduction as the carefully curated meals and his sure hands on her body and the many, _many_ bottles of fine wine that are so often split between the two of them. 

Just as certainly as she dreads the moment when she cocks a single finger and beckons him into her bed, she finds herself increasingly aware of the inevitability of that very demise. 

She has been flirting with the underworld for months now, idly rolling a pomegranate seed between her fingertips, allowing its red juice to stain the skin beneath, tongue flicking out to wet her lips as she contemplates the taste of it, the finality of it, the overwhelming temptation that can be contained within such a tiny, seemingly inconsequential object. 

Perhaps she ought to get a jump on destiny, lest it eventually creep up upon her and catch her unawares. 

She does so enjoy being in control. 

It is, after all, better to be the crushing boot than the injured bird. 

Though perhaps it is best not to reflect upon injured birds at all. 

On the day that desire and resolve finally grip her heart in their talons and refuse to let go, the gentle music of a harpsichord filters through the splendid rooms that the pair occupies -- echoing off of gilded fixtures and frescoed ceilings. Hannibal often plays when he finds himself plagued with petty, human emotions. Despite the inherent privacy that a career in medicine entails, Hannibal is a performer at heart. He itches to impress, longs to be adored, seeks to be worshipped. Above all else, he wants to be noticed. 

He is begging her to both hear and acknowledge him. 

And she is one of the few people who has glimpsed him in his entirety and been allowed to live.   
  
It is a curse and a privilege. 

Bedelia glances at herself in the mirror, running a single hand through her hair, adjusting the fit of her bodice with a small tug, blotting her red lipstick with a careful press of a tissue. She wants to be both Hannibal's dream and his nightmare. She may not possess his natural inclination for performance, however, that does not mean that she lacks a healthy appreciation for the theatrical arts and a flair for the dramatic. 

Once she is content with her appearance, she opens the bedroom door and steps into the hallway. 

Her stilettoed heels click against the hardwood floor with every step, marking a beat of her own beneath Hannibal's song. Though the rhythm exists independently from Hannibal's own, they complement each other, weaving in and out in a blissful torrent of sound. 

Hannibal glances up at Bedelia's entrance into the grand parlor, eyes locking onto her with intense, burning certainty as they trace her path towards her. Her heart beats in her throat -- frantic, nervous, traitorous. His fingers do not falter in their playing, even when she draws near enough for him to speak. 

"You look unusually lethal, Bedelia." 

From anyone else, it would be an odd compliment, but given Hannibal's tendency to peck at her, to pick out her vulnerabilities and remark upon them with chilling accuracy, it is unsurprising that he would bring violence into the equation. He knows how tempting she finds murder, and how difficult that temptation is to fight.

"Winter often cultivates a certain kind of desperation."

Hannibal's piercing eyes fall away, thoughtfully sliding across the keys of the harpsichord. Though he may be projecting a certain calm, Bedelia can tell that she has caught him off-guard. Hannibal has answers prepared for many scenarios -- sets of meticulously cultivated metaphors, each honed to perfection -- but he has clearly not anticipated this move. It is too early to claim checkmate, but perhaps she might be able to corner him. 

Eventually, Hannibal replies, "It does indeed, though I believe most people would be surprised to know that desperation is bold enough to call upon the untouchable Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier."

The corner of her crimson lips tightens into a smirk, and she dares to draw closer to Hannibal, to reduce their proximity to almost nothing, to take a seat on the bench beside him and rest a hand upon his thigh. Muscles tighten and quiver beneath her touch, but still, the music continues. 

His fingers dance. Her heartbeat races. The pomegranate seed begs to be consumed. 

"Perhaps it is not desperation, but a different kind of hunger." 

The exhale that precedes man's next words is slow and measured. "At its core, hunger is a survival instinct, a biological imperative that demands that one continue living."

"Instincts often overwhelm even the most rational mind." As she speaks, Bedelia tilts her head, blonde hair skating affectionately over the curves of her body. 

"It is rational to fight for a survival, especially in a world that purposefully makes such things difficult." 

Bedelia raises a hand to Hannibal's face, slipping her fingers beneath his chin and turning it in her direction.   
  
"I do not think that this is a matter of survival."

It is too reckless for that. Too dangerous. It is born of the same instinct that longs to play with fire and teeter upon tree limbs and build a house upon eroding shores. 

It is ambition. 

It is longing. 

It is an insatiable need to devour. 

She draws his mouth to hers and locks him in a kiss. It is elegant, curious, and refined -- the very reflection of the carefully crafted personas that its participants project into the world.

Hannibal's fingers finally leave the instrument, the final notes ring and die away, and once they give way to silence, his hands are on her body -- deft, confident, practiced. 

It is an expert's touch. 

Despite her trepidation, Bedelia swallows the pomegranate seed, allows herself to swoon, and cements her descent into the underworld. 

_An alluring winter indeed_.


End file.
